


Mr Romanoff and Mrs Barton

by grootmorning



Series: Domestic Assassins for Hire [1]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassins, But mostly cute, Clintasha - Freeform, Clintasha being ridiculously cute, Domestic Bliss, F/M, Murder, Porn, and Dangerous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grootmorning/pseuds/grootmorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who said being assassins for hire didn't mean you could be ridiculously domestic and in love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr Romanoff and Mrs Barton

"Which dress goes better with these shoes?" Natasha held up two hangers, looking between both as she faced down her husband.

Clint looked up from adjusting his cufflinks and pursed his lips, deep in thought. "The black one," he decided.

"You always go for the black one," Natasha shook her head as she hung the purple dress back into the wardrobe. 

Clint took a few seconds to admire her figure as his wife, heels and all, stepped into the floor length gown with a large slit up the left thigh before he stepped forward to help her zip up the back. Placing his hands on her bare shoulders, his heart warmed when she leaned into his touch briefly. Right before she smacked him and stepped forward to grab her jewellery.

"You know I like how the black dress goes with your red heels, _darling._ And your hair always looks good against black," he drawled out and barely dodged the wadded up tissue she threw his way.

"Keep it in your pants, Barton. I want to get to a gala properly dressed up for once."

Clint raised his hands. "That's it. We're boring. I'm divorcing you, Mrs Barton. I need some spice in my life and you're not providing it." He made a show of taking off his wedding ring and mimed throwing it out the window, grinning as he did so.

Natasha raised a perfectly drawn eyebrow at him even as she slid her favourite combat knife into her thigh sheath. She grabbed his tie and straightened the knot before dragging him out of the bedroom. They were bordering on late, as usual and she did not have time for this.

"You're Mr Romanoff, by the way."

"Aw, no!"

\---

Sneaking into these flashy galas were ridiculously easy. Security didn't even bother patrolling the upper floors, so all they had to do was hoist themselves up to the second level (easy), rumple themselves up just a little bit (easy), and stumble down to where the gala was being held, giggling like a couple of school kids (way too easy). Sometimes Clint would press Natasha up against some doorway, kissing her fiercely if the security looked too strict, making them look away in embarrassment before waving them through.

Honestly, you would think security would be a little bit more careful. They haven't had to use backup yet on any occasion, backup being a knife and a gun to the throat respectively; they were that good.

The dancing had already started, a lively piece people were waltzing around the ballroom to. Clint looked sadly at the flutes of champagnes and treats the waiters were artfully carrying around the crowd. No time for munchies then.

Natasha elbowed him sharply and he growled at her. 

"Behave," she wrinkled her nose at him. "This is a formal gala, you bum."

"I'm the bum?" Clint raised an offended hand to his chest. "I was raised by the highest calibre of people."

"Carnies," Natasha hid her words with a cough, smiling brilliantly at the people they passed. Her eyes scanned the crowd for the one person they came here for and Clint exchanged some pleasantries with a boring looking couple who wanted to know what they did.

"Private security consultants, we are. It's a family business. Just the two of us," Clint spoke in an even tone, but crowed inwardly as he snagged a caviar laden amuse-bouche and popped it straight into his mouth. At a glare, he guiltily flagged the waiter down for another and gave it to Natasha meekly.

When his arm was squeezed gently, Clint knew that was his cue to wind down conversation and he extricated them both out of a incredibly mundane conversation. Tilting his head slightly down, Clint kept his gaze neutral and focused front whilst Natasha whispered into his ear. "He's dancing," she murmured. "We'll have to get out on to the floor as well."

"Can you do it? The - " Clint gestured a little.

Natasha, the ever patient wife, rolled her eyes. "Yes, that is exactly why I suggested dancing, Clinton. Let's get on with it."

With that, Clint took her by the hand and pulled her out to the middle of the ballroom, bowing gracefully, with that slightly exaggerated air that only Natasha could pick up on. Stifling a small grin, she placed her other hand behind his back and gave him a tiny nod. 

They swept around the room with confidence, even as some guests stopped to stare. Their few years together had taught them to move with a grace around each other that marvelled the general public and a few ladies gasped as Clint spun Natasha before dipping her so low her cleavage was almost indecent. 

When he brought her back up, she put her lips right next to his ear, whispering as lowly as possible. "He's right behind you."

Clint spun Natasha again fiercely, a bit too strongly in fact, which was apparent when she went crashing into someone.

"Oh my, I am so sorry," Natasha apologised profusely even as Clint dipped his head. "We got a little too caught up in our dancing. Did I step on your toes?"

The man waved their apologies off, "Just a little bit, that's alright. A simple accident, that's all."

Natasha graced him with another smile as Clint apologised another time, just for measure. "Darling, I do feel a winded, I think we'd better take a break from all this dancing, shall we?"

Clint laughed and took her arm, guiding her to a quiet corner of the room.

"You think it'll be enough?"

"You always know whether it's enough."

"I know," Natasha smirked. "I just wanted to hear you say it."

Clint made to poke her but then there was a crash and all heads turned as the man they'd bumped into earlier keeled over and brought a waiter, champagne tray and all, down with him.

"And that's our cue," Clint made a small fist happily as they walked as quickly as they could towards the exit in the chaos. As soon as they were out of the door, Natasha bumped his fist with hers discreetly.

It was a minute run to the car, which Natasha accomplished in heels in fact, Clint reached barely a few seconds ahead of her and took her by surprise as he grabbed her and pressed her against the cold metal. She would have shrieked but the way Clint's lips found the pulse on her neck was very distracting. Natasha settled for curling her fingers into his lapels and dragging him closer, and if her fingers tightened so hard they left unforgiving creases in the expensive material when he slid a hand up the slit of her dress, he didn't mention it.

Somehow, they managed to get the door open and Natasha dragged the door shut with a heel. If the door had banged into Clint's arm, it wasn't her fault really. How could she, when her dress was pushed almost up to her waist and he was shrugging off his jacket. She always did have a thing for his shoulders and how they looked under a fitted shirt.

She hooked a leg around his waist and he eyed her shoes with trepidation. "Are they going to poke an eye out?"

The heel was kinda sharp but Natasha wasn't bothered, "If they were going to, you would be blind already after our first gala."

"True," Clint pressed the heel of his hand against her core, watched in pleasure as her eyes rolled up and she arched towards him. 

What Clint was really worried about was the small trigger mechanism in the bottom of her left heel, the one that injected the neurotoxin into their target just five minutes early, and if it might accidentally be deployed in the throes of passion, but he trusted her, so he left it alone. It wasn't important now.

\---

The windows had fogged up and Clint was in danger of falling off the seat onto the floor from where he was lying beside Natasha but he didn't think he could move at this point.

Natasha pushed herself up on an elbow, looking at the two of them as she took stock of their positions. Their laughter filled the car as they realised that Natasha's underwear was still hanging off a heel, one of Clint's shoes had somehow come off and landed in the front passenger seat and one of her earrings had snagged in his hair.

Tracing a dainty finger down his half-unbuttoned shirt, Natasha smiled sleepily at him, before leaning over to kiss him. Just a touch of the lips, nothing more, but Clint smiled into it. A warm hand found her cheek, stroking it as he kissed her again.

It was tradition for them, to celebrate every job well done. And every job of theirs was well done.

Time to go home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> More in this series to come. Send me prompts if you have any :) Tell me if you like it? ^^


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